EPISTLE TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., RECOMMENDING A BOY. [Gavin Hamilton, here addressed, under date Mosgaville, May 3, 1786, was a writer to the signet or legal practitioner, whose residence at this time was the most conspicuous dwellinghouse in the village of Mauchline. Master Tootie was a dealer in cows, well known in that locality.] I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty To warn you how that Master Tootie, Was here to hire yon lad away As lieve then, I'd have then, Not fitted other where. To try to get the twa to gree, In faith he 's sure to get him. Ye ken your laureate scorns; EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND [The young friend here addressed, under date May, 1786, was Andrew Aiken, son of Robert Aiken, to whom Burns inscribed, as an unwitting passport to fame, his noble "Cotter's Saturday Night." Andrew Aiken proved eminently successful in afterlife, first as a merchant in Liverpool, and later on as a servant of the Crown abroad, in which capacity he died some forty years ago at St. Petersburgh.] I LANG ha'e thought, my youthfu' friend, Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, And muckle they may grieve ye : TO A LOUSE. ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT [Mention is made in the sixth stanza of the My sooth right bauld ye set your nose As plump and grey as onie grozet; Wad dress your droddum! I wad na been surprised to spy following, of a then fashionable gauze or muslin I'd gie ye sic a hearty dose o't, HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie! Owre gauze and lace; Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, Gae somewhere else and seek your On some poor body. Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred jumpin' cattle, In shoals and nations; Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight, But Miss's fine Lunardi-fie! Oh, Jenny, dinna toss your head, Oh, wad some power the giftie gi'e us It wad frae monie a blunder free us A BARD'S EPITAPH. [In this self-condemnatory epitaph, Burns seems, in obedience to a sombre presentiment, to have donned the sackcloth and ashes by anticipation.] Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, [Prefixed to this Dream, as originally published, were these words-"On reading in the public papers the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade on June 4th, 1786, the Author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birthday levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address." The Poet Laureate at this time was Thomas Warton. Mrs. Dunlop having taken exception to the pasquinade as indiscreet, Burns wrote her, on the 30th April, 1787-"My Dream has unfortunately incurred your loyal displeasure; but I set, as little by princes, lords, clergy and critics, as all these respective gentry do by my bardship."} "Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason; But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason?" GUID-MORNIN' to your Majesty! May Heaven augment your blisses, On every new birthday ye see, A humble poet wishes! Sae fine this day. I see ye 're complimented thrang, "God save the King!"'s a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said aye; The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel-turned and ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But aye unerring steady, On sic a day. For me! before a monarch's face, Ev'n there I winna flatter; For neither pension, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor: So, nae reflection on your grace, Your kingship to bespatter; There's mony waur been o' the race, And aiblins ane been better Than you this day. 'Tis very true, my sov'reign king, But facts are chiels that winna ding, My skill may weel be doubted: An' downa be disputed: Your royal nest, beneath your wing, Than did ae day. Far be 't frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation, To rule this mighty nation! To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre Than courts yon day. And now ye 've gi'en auld Britain peace, Till she has scarce a tester: For me, thank God! my life's a lease, Or, faith! I fear, that wi' the geese I' the craft some day. I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get A name not envy spairges,) That he intends to pay your debt, An' lessen a' your charges; But, God-sake! let nae saving fit Abridge your bonnie barges An' boats this day. Adieu, my Liege! may Freedom geck To pay your Queen, with due respect, This great birthday.. Hail, Majesty Most Excellent! A simple poet gi'es ye? Frae care that day. For you, young potentate o' Wales, sails, I'm tauld ye 're driving rarely; But some day ye may gnaw your nails, An' curse your folly sairly, That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, By night or day. Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known So, ye may doucely fill a throne, Few better were or braver ; For you, right rev'rend Osnaburgh, Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Although a ribbon at your lug Wad been a dress completer: As ye disown yon paughty dog That bears the keys of Peter, Then, swith! an' get a wife to hug, Or, trouth! ye'll stain the mitre Some luckless day. Young royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, Ye've lately come athwart her; A glorious galley, stem an' stern, Well rigged for Venus' barter; |